I didn’t think anything about the story of the girls tied up on Franklin. What I did think about was getting this man to buy me dinner. I studied his body—the bulk of his shoulder muscles under his uniform, the sharp, clean-shaven line of his jaw. I guessed he was in his forties, though it was hard to tell. His dark skin was unwrinkled. I didn’t often end up with men who looked like him. I usually went home with skinny white boys no older than me. They rarely knew what to do.

“My name is Ella,” I said. “Tell me more about Crown Heights.” I cradled my chin in my palm, looking at him wistfully. “I’m from very far away.”

He gave me a side-eye in which I could see him sizing up my body as well. He took a swig of beer, and then said, “You know about the riots, Ella? Everybody knows about the riots.”

I didn’t know what he was referencing, but I nodded.

“No, let me tell you about something else.” He squinted at me. “You know about the LeRoi family?”

A bead of condensation dripped from my glass onto my leg. I felt it trickle all the way down to my ankle. I shook my head.

“They ran a church out of a brownstone around here, but it wasn’t a real church, it was more like a harem of women. The pastor was this guy Rev. LeRoi. He liked ’em young. The girls would dress up like nuns and go beg for money in the subway. They had all kinds of this guy’s kids. Nobody understood how so many kids fit in that house. There were rumors LeRoi made them keep ’em upstairs in cages. When one of the girls wanted out, she disappeared. This went on for years. They finally busted LeRoi, and found where he’d been dumping the bodies.”

“Where?”

“This land he owned up north somewhere. In a lake. He killed some nineteen girls. Thing is, his son still runs the church. Supposedly it’s squeaky clean now, but I’d stay the hell away from it.”

I looked down and found my barstool was rocking back and forth and my beer was gone, though it didn’t seem like enough time had passed for me to drink it all. It was quite a twisted story by way of introduction, but I didn’t care. I still wanted to have dinner with him. The cop turned to the bartender. “Another round?” he asked. I couldn’t stand the thought of more beer so I ordered a gin and tonic—tonic was supposed to be good for nausea, wasn’t it? I laughed, repeated the word “tonic.” It was going to restore me.